


Don't Mean a Thang

by JustDrinkTea



Category: Homestuck
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 22:42:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustDrinkTea/pseuds/JustDrinkTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you ain't got that swang.</p>
<p> This is Joe's Place; the finest speakeasy you've ever had the pleasure of laying your eyes on. Here, the girls' skirts are shorter, the bands are better, and the supplies of alcohol are of the primest choice. Your bar of choice on a busy Friday night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Mean a Thang

It's a busy night. But then again, most Friday nights are this side of Boston- especially these days. Everyone's bustling about these days, drunk off the momentary peace after war; America's golden years. 1923.

You keep your head low as you walk through the streets, pushing past people in the dimly-lit night, hands buried deep in your jacket pockets.

You slip into an even dimmer alleyway to your left, ducking in between the tall buildings without anyone noticing. You only have to take fifteen more steps before you reach the spot you need. It's not marked in any way; many people would simply walk past the concrete steps. But you're not one of the majority. You place a hand on the cold metal handrail and descend the five steps, walking up to the door that sits at the bottom.

Cautiously, you glance around quickly before knocking on the old, wooden door. You can hear faint music on the other side of the door, accompanied by an inviting and overwhelming sound of laughter and socializing. You knock on the door thrice, each rap placed carefully with a beat of silence separating them. For a short moment, nothing happens.

Then, a small slot is slid open. A pair of eyes meet yours and you can just barely make out the muffled, gruff words the owner of those eyes barks at you through the door; "Yer Jalopy break down?"

"Joe sent me," you reply with a shrug, breaking eye contact with the man casually.

"Joe oughtta call a mechanic."

"What Joe oughtta do is take the trolley." You glance back up at the man, just in time to see his eyes wrinkle in a smile before he slides the slot closed once more. Not more than a second later, the door's opened up to you.

The man welcomes you with a sweep of his arm. "Welcome back, Mister Strider," he says with a grin. You can't help but notice he's grown out his bushy, brown mustache for the first time in the past year. You make sure to mention it as you pass by and step inside- a compliment he clearly appreciates. Hands still lounging in your pockets, you take a moment to take in the scene before you.

This is Joe's Place; the finest speakeasy you've ever had the pleasure of laying your eyes on. Here, the girls' skirts are shorter, the bands are better, and the supplies of alcohol are of the primest choice. There's a platform for the band, a dance floor for the swingers, and enough tables for the entire club to sit comfortably.

You take a seat at one of the tables- joining a party of five- and are instantly engulfed in the latest stories, jokes, and gossip. Drinks are on you.

"So, Mister Strider!" a young girl begins. She's probably 17 or 18, if her petite figure is anything to go off of. and has all but clung to your arm the entire time you've been sitting. Not that you really mind. "You heard about that Al Capone fella? He's causing a real ruckus out there in Chicago." She's got a hint of that good 'ol fashioned New Jersey accent. You try to remember her name. Anita, you think. She leans away from you for a moment to take a drag from her cigarette, blowing the smoke in the direction of another man's face.

You don't answer for a moment, taking some time to down the rest of your drink instead. "Yeah, I heard of him," you say finally, not really interested in this conversation. You lean towards her, nodding to her hand and she offers you her cigarette. You take a particularly long drag, not bothering to take it from her grasp. She pulls her hand away and you continue. "There's a bird who's gonna end up real rich. You mark my words."

Another man at the table chimes in to offer his opinion, and you let him take lead of the conversation, instead focusing your attention on the current band. The singer- a man- has a deep baritone voice, and it's nothing if not appealing. The saxophonist dances around the stage as he performs, the pianist laughs at the obviously drunk trumpeter as he stumbles along and tries to keep up with the rest of the band. You shake your head in amusement; they're still some of the best around despite, and the huge group of dancers is evidence of this.

They wrap up their final song after the trumpeter falls off the stage- caught by a few kind dancers in the audience. The lack of music leaves a strange emptiness in the bar, but the previous singer assures everyone the new act will be up and ready to go in the next half hour.

You tune back into the conversation happening around you. They've moved onto telling jokes- a conversation you really don't mind being in on. While you don't contribute much to this exchange, you find yourself more than interested in these kinds of stories.

The man across from you starts a joke regarding Harold Lloyd, when another young man pulls up a chair next to you on your right. "Mind if I join?" he asks cheerfully, draping his suit jacket over the back of his chair and sitting down.

The girl clinging to your arm speaks up first. "Hey! You're that pianist! Boy, your band is just the bee's knees." The rest of the patrons at your table continue on with their conversation as they were.

The boy clears his throat a little awkwardly, nodding and reaching a hand out to shake hers. "That'd be me, miss! I'm John."

"Ruth," she replies just as cheerfully. So turns out her name wasn't Anita. "But I really mean it. You guys are the berries."

You turn your head to face John. "Yeah," you agree, smug smirk plastered shamelessly onto your face. "Ain't he swell?"

John rolls his eyes, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, and fixing the angle of his tan pageboy cap. "Well thank you, Ruth. I'll make sure to tell the other guys when I see them."

"How about a drink, John?" you offer, getting a word in before Ruth can say anything else. "I'm buying."

He shakes his head. "No thanks, Strider. I don't need to go home drunk again."

"Oh..." Ruth says understandingly, nodding. "Girlfriend trouble?"

John glances at you quickly before flicking his gaze back to Ruth. "Something like that."

The next band begins setting up their things- preparing for the next hour or so that they'll be performing. Ruth notices before you get a chance to say anything about it. "Hey, Mister Strider! Wanna dance with me? I'm real good."

You look down at her, smiling. "Sorry doll," you say- not actually sorry at all. "But I've already got a partner." As if to punctuate this, you grab John's hand, standing up and dragging him with you over to the dance floor, despite his complaints.

"Come on, Dave! I just sat down!" he whines behind you. "The band's not even playing yet!"

You can feel and hear your shoes clack against the smooth, polished, hardwood floor as you go over to stand at the edge of the stage. "Yeah, I know. That was probably stupid, but that dumb dame wouldn't let go of my arm."

"You mean like how you're not letting go of my hand?"

You ignore John and his snarky comment, and instead walk up to the singer of the next band, looking up at her. "When will you be ready to play?" you ask, not really eager on returning back to Ruth after that little stunt.

The woman glances down at you. "Well, we can be ready to play now if you'd like, Mister Strider."

You grin. "And how."

She returns your grin and goes back to the rest of her band, going through their list of songs once more before they strike up a chord.

John isn't as excited. "Is there anyone here who doesn't know you?" he asks unimpressed, quirking an eyebrow. He follows you out onto the center of the dance floor, allowing you to take his hands in your own so that you're facing each other- waiting for the music to begin playing again.

"Jealous?"

"Of you? No way!"

The music begins and you two begin moving in earnest- you in the lead. The band is upbeat and almost as good as John's. Their performance is better, but then again, they don't have a drunken trumpeter. You and John continue with your banter back-and-forth for a while before truly getting lost with each other, not even noticing when other couples join you in dance.

Your lead doesn't last for more than a few minutes; John takes over as soon as he gets the chance- his signature, mischievous smirk present on his lips. You don't go down easy, battling him back for your rightful position as leader in this, your feet moving quickly to the beat. He sets you up for a spin, and you have no choice but to follow through on it, your open, unbuttoned suit coat twirling out like you imagine a skirt would if you were wearing one. The moment you reset from the spin, you take the opportunity to steal back the leading role. You lift him. It's easy because he's so light, and it's fun because it invokes a flash of panic and surprise- clearly evident on his face- or one of those cute giggles he's prone to.

Tonight you're rewarded with the latter.

Your fight for dominance continues through the next couple of songs. Despite the constant competition, you both keep up with each other's quick changes, your steps practically flawless throughout it all- spinning and jumping and lifting- the constant sound of the jazzy voice and a saxophone in the background making it all the better. It's the best time you've had all night. That goes without saying.

As soon as the band has finished with their final song, you and John silently agree to pack up as well. Without saying another word to anyone, he grabs his jacket and you both leave to head towards your apartment. The air outside in the alley is considerably cooler than it was in the bar. You hadn't even realized how hot it was until you stepped outside.

John hooks his arm with yours as you both walk down back towards the main street. It's not as crowded anymore, considering it's almost midnight. Of course there are the usual night-owls out and about, but for the most part, there aren't too many people to call you two out for being so close physically. Like when you kiss him quickly. Or when he grips your arm tighter- much like how Ruth had earlier. He leans on you and starts up some small talk about his band. You listen to every word, piping up only when the conversation calls for it.

They're playing again next Wednesday. You'll be there.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so I was gonna update Pianist, but that didn't end up happening. NaNo burnt me out pretty bad.
> 
> I've had this idea for a while, but I just kind of whipped it out now in an attempt to get myself back into the fanfic groove. I'm not sure it turned out really how I wanted it to, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway! Thanks, guys!


End file.
